


I just smile, I go ahead and smile

by Mizzy



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bad Bob Knew First, Failboats In Love, Jack Has Feelings, M/M, POV Minor Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:39:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7117933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack has no game when it comes to Bittle. It's a good thing Bad Bob's around to give his son a helpful shove in the right direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I just smile, I go ahead and smile

Bad Bob couldn't be prouder if he tried. He's been smiling non-stop for a week. Who knew his kid winning a Stanley Cup could feel better than any number of his own?

He watches as Jack is surrounded by a constant mill of smartly dressed adults and teenagers. It had been so nice of Georgia to arrange the dinner in support of division one hockey, raising money for the kids who couldn't get scholarships at their colleges but were still amazing players. Jack's been volunteering for the charity all year, and yeah, Bad Bob is literally bursting with pride for his incredible son.

He's still beaming when Jack manages to extract himself from small talk with some local entrepreneurs to come draw alongside him.

"Mom says your smile is a little creepy," Jack mutters under his breath.

"Too bad, I think the wind changed," Bad Bob says.

Jack side-eyes him for a moment and maintains his own smile, which is much less genuine, and more media-friendly. Then his gaze slides over to the table of refreshments, and his media-perfect smile falters at the edges.

Bad Bob follows his gaze to where Eric Bittle is stood with a group of Jack's old Samwell teammates, gesturing excitedly. He follows the gaze back to where his son is staring at him across the room with obvious heart-eyes.

"Mom might have some advice about your own expression, if you want to remain, ah, less obvious about your heart's intentions," Bad Bob murmurs, through his own smile which is still refusing to quit, although now it's powered a little by amusement at just how little game Jack has when it comes to Eric Richard Bittle Jr.

There's a faint hint of pink to Jack's cheeks which can thankfully be attributed to the warmth of the hall.

"Jack Zimmermann, man of the hour," someone cries, moving in close and patting Jack on the back. Jack throws Bittle another long-distance longing glance and then settles all his attention in on the interloper, shaking their hand and talking pleasantly to them.

Bad Bob just beams proudly, unable to stop himself.

It's another hour before he manages to talk to Jack again, and this time, Jack throws him a look of sheer desperation.

"I know you hate these," Bad Bob says, keeping his voice low. "We all do. But you won the Cup, Jack, and that's important to a lot of people, and the funds you're gonna raise—"

"I know," Jack says, and it comes out like a low whine, like he's been checked too hard, and he glances over to where Bittle is still holding court by the refreshments, laughing loud and long at something one of the many entrepreneurs milling around looking to invest in the charity has said to him. "But—"

"I know, you want to play hockey, not shmooze rich guys—"

"Well, yes, but, _dad—_ "  And Jack sounds so desperate that Bad Bob finally turns fully to look at his son, and Jack is practically vibrating on his feet. Bad Bob's smile falters. Just a little. "It's just— C'mon. It's been ten weeks."

Bad Bob squints. It's hard to look confused while still mostly smiling, but he manages. "Ten weeks since—?"

Jack takes a deep breath, flickers his eyes to the ceiling, before his gaze reluctantly drags back to where Bittle is laughing again. He turns a glare to his dad almost defiantly. "It's been ten weeks. Ten weeks. I played hard, and I won the Cup, and I've turned up to every single one of the seventeen events you've directed me to go to, but c'mon, _ten weeks, dad._ Let me be rude and get out of here. _Please._ "

It's the sheer desperation in Jack's voice, and the intensity of the glare he levels at his dad, that makes Bad Bob's smile fully fade for the first time since the commentators said _"it's a good goal — Falconers take the lead in game seven — and with ten seconds left on the clock — that's it! Snow delivering a shut-out that means rookie Zimmermann's goal has clinched the Cup for the Falconers! The Providence Falconers win the 2016 Stanley Cup!_ "

Bad Bob sighs, because Jack can't skip this event, not without them losing out on a lot of potential funds.

"And he's just _right there,_ " Jack finishes, miserably, his hands twisting in the hem of his jacket, his gaze slowly and sadly going over to where Bittle's talking animatedly, gesturing with his hands, and _oh._

Oh.

"Ten weeks, huh?" Bad Bob says, slowly.

Jack's gaze flicks back to his, and he looks so strung out that Bob, well—

He's an adult.

He can totally deal with his adult son coming up to him to complain about blue balls because of ten weeks away from his boyfriend.

Absolutely he can deal with that.

Oh god, no he can't.

Bad Bob flickers his own desperate gaze for help, but Alicia is off talking excitedly with the Samwell hockey coaches. He's totally on his own. He takes a deep breath, and then he smiles again, although this time there's probably an edge of pure panic to it.

"Oh," Bad Bob says, and tilts his wine glass at himself, spilling a drop on himself. Then more loudly: "How clumsy of me. Look at the thing I have spilled on my tie. Jack, son, would you do me a favor and go and get my spare one from the hotel room?"

Jack's staring at his father like Bad Bob's lost his mind.

Eh, he probably has a point.

"Maybe Bittle can help you, seeing as he has a better sense of fashion than you?" Bad Bob adds, yanking off his tie and jerking his head over to where Bittle is.

Jack stares. "This is no time for me to do you a favor, Dad."

Bad Bob kind of wants to facepalm at Jack's utter lack of game. "Bittle and a hotel room and quiet for half an hour, Jack," he mutters, as quietly as he can, and he fishes in his pocket for his key card, thrusting the card and his tie at his clueless son. "Do I need to draw you a diagram?"

It's hard not to turn the smile into a helpless laugh. Jack's twenty-six and his own father's having to help him get laid. _Crisse_.

Jack flushes and takes the key card.

Alicia draws up as Jack makes it to the other side of the hall where Bittle is. "You okay? You looked like you were halfway to an aneurysm a few minutes ago."

Bad Bob thinks about answering positively, but he catches what's going on at the other side of the hall.

Jack leans in to talk to Bittle, managing a fair impression of someone trying to stay in the closet, and Bittle brightens when Jack leans back. Bad Bob's halfway to celebrating when he sees Bittle pulling— a spare tie out of his jacket pocket, beaming at Jack helpfully.

If Bad Bob had ever doubted that Bittle and Jack were meant to be together, this evidence of their combined lack of game currently attempting to kill Bad Bob dead would probably do it.

And then Jack obviously panics, flails, and dumps the tie in a bowl of punch.

Jack might have won the Stanley Cup a few weeks ago, but by goodness, Bad Bob deserves an award of his own for putting up with this sort of thing.

"Bob?"

Bad Bob jumps, and realizes he didn't answer Alicia's question. He tears his gaze away from where Bittle and Jack are headed quietly to a back door. "Sorry, yeah. I'm fine."

Alicia narrows her eyes at him suspiciously but nods, accepting. "I'm glad you toned down your smile, at least."

"Haha, yeah." Bad Bob flickers a gaze at Jack's head disappearing through a door, and his smile creeps wider again, because he really is proud of his son. Occasional emotional density and all.

# 

Except, Bad Bob _really_ deserves an award. Because he ends up having to do what no father should ever be asked to do.

It's his own fault, he got himself in this mess, and he's probably going to hear things a father should never have to hear, _why is Jack not answering his phone._

Okay, okay, Bad Bob knows exactly why Jack is not answering his phone and it's Bad Bob's fault and everything is terrible.

Georgia's desperate for Jack to come back and talk to some investors, and it's important, million dollars worth of importance, and Bad Bob is a freaking trooper for doing this. Ugh, he hates everything. Next time the playoffs come around and Jack wins, Bad Bob is renting he and Bittle an entire island for a week and taking charge of Jack's diary himself.

Bad Bob's smile is replaced by loathing, because he hates life, he hates everything, there are really some things a father should _not ever never hear._

He draws up to his hotel room, wincing, and raises his hand to knock. He knocks gently. "Jack?"

There's no response.

"Jack, it's me, I'm, uh, I'm coming in?"

No response.

Bad Bob swallows hard. He could leave, but the investors might leave too, and Jack would never forgive himself. And maybe if he left, someone else would come looking, and then Jack's secret would be out, and Jack would never forgive him.

He lifts up the spare keycard Alicia gave him, slides it in, and steps into the hotel room, covering his face with his hand.

"Jack, are you okay? I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's urgent," Bad Bob says.

Expecting the voices to come from the direction of the bed, Bad Bob startles when the voice comes from his left.

"It's okay," Bittle says, "there's nothing, uh— You don't have to cover your eyes."

Bad Bob slides his hand down reluctantly, to see Bittle and Jack still fully clothed, sitting on the couch. Snuggling? Bad Bob squints. Jack has his arms around Bittle, but his face pushed into his neck, and he looks asleep?

"This happens occasionally," Bittle says, gesturing helplessly at Jack. "Jack, c'mon, honey. Time to wake up."

Jack makes an incoherent noise.

"It happens more often when he's been away," Bittle says, with a fondness when he sighs. He lifts up his hand and traces a path through Jack's hair, pushing it away from his forehead. "Sweetheart, c'mon." Bitty looks up at Bad Bob. " We haven't been able to hug for like, two months, and I know it's been upsetting him. Thank you for giving us an excuse to slip away."

Oh, Bad Bob thinks. _Oh._

Jack wasn't whining about ten weeks without sex.

He was whining because he hasn't been able to hug Bittle for ten weeks.

"I heard it was ten weeks," Bad Bob offers.

"Ten horrible weeks," Jack mutters, finally waking up. He looks at his dad reluctantly. "Guess this means I've got to go back, huh?"

"Yep," Bad Bob says. "Sorry."

"Nah, it's okay," Jack says, stretching a little, and reluctantly letting Bittle go. "I think I can handle a few more hours now." He smiles at Bittle, who blushes and smiles back, and he leans in to brush a chaste kiss against Bittle's lips that turns a little less chaste, and yep, that's actually tongue, life isn't all sunshine and rainbows after all, nope. Bad Bob turns around politely, rummaging in the suitcase at the end of the bed for his spare tie. When he turns back, the boys are on their feet, and Bittle's straightening Jack's tie for him.

"I'll see you later," Bittle says, stepping back with one last pat of Jack's tie and a proud smile on his face that Bad Bob can appreciate.

"Yeah," Jack says, beaming wide. "Later, Bits."

Jack smiles all the way back down into the hall, and smiles as he small talks with another group of millionaires, and smiles through a thousand photo ops. Bad Bob watches his son fondly, his own smile creeping back onto his face.

He kind of knows how Jack feels.


End file.
